


Brownie Points

by aqhrodites



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: But whatever, Dad Logan, F/M, Parent-Teacher Relationship, Parent/Teacher Relationship, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Tumblr Prompt, i guess this could be seen as a continuation from my other fic Piece Of Cake, not exactly canon, with a guest appearance of Laura Kinney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 01:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12002352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqhrodites/pseuds/aqhrodites
Summary: Prompt: “Person A sleeps in late and wakes up to Person B cooking breakfast in the morning. A walks into the kitchen and just wraps their arms around B while they continue to cook.” with Kayla and Logan?





	Brownie Points

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short drabble from a tumblr prompt sent to me.

In retrospect, Kayla probably shouldn't have gone to that dimly-lit pub the one on the West side of time where all the bourgeois and CEOs take their spendy new squeezes to get something _quick_. And the air is filled as so—tart, sardonic, and heavy with the aftertaste of expensive bourbon and ardor. Maybe, Kayla shouldn't have gone where, where it's too dim to clearly see the exact color of the other person's eyes. Maybe she shouldn't have worn that spaghetti strap aqua blue dress, the same one she had worn on the first date, the one that she had been told reminded him of ocean waves; she shouldn't have leaned into his touch, eyes foretelling when his hand trailed down her arm, and she should have definitely not smiled in their kiss.

But she's hastily awakening in bed the following morning. And her focus darts across the bedroom, sunlight filtering in through blinds that have been open partial way. There's a scratching thirst at the back of her throat, and she notices—with more alarm than she cares to admit—the man that had been beside her is gone, the bed covers pulled back and mattress cold.

She also remembers that this bed isn't hers. And with a brief wave of panic that reemerging nostalgic college flashbacks, she pulls the blankets up to her neck.

The A/C clicks on and suddenly her shoulders and bare back are cold.

The hammering of a hangover slows her moves as she rolls out of bed, bringing the blankets with her, immediately begins looking for her clothes around the floor. Instead, she finds a yellow Post-It note beside a pile of folded clothes on a desk. The note is scribbled in blue pen ink about her clothes in the washer machine; the clothes an oversized pair of grey sweatpants and a Mt. Rushmore souvenir t-shirt.

They smell like him.

There's a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water alongside another note on the bedside table.

For a quick moment of awareness—she's half aware of everything but her headache, but she remembers his course dark hair, the serene, relaxed smiles and air of content and intimacy—and something clicks in her mind, and she thinks it just be fate, plus she's _really_ thirsty now.

A small smile tugs at her face.

* * *

 

Kayla finds the house alarmingly quiet. Her bare feet pat across the cold, wooden floorboards, ruffling her hair, still-drying from a shower and tied back in a ponytail. She begins to wonder if her date skipped out on her—an unpleasant recollection, again. There's a pile of unopened mail tossed randomly across the top of a bookshelf—a Men's Fitness and Highlighter's magazine, and she chuckles.

There's a clatter of metal, and she creeps further down the hall. A television is on. Questions begin listing off in her head about her date, his habits, and if he _really_ had gone to plop down in front—

Laura whirls around when Kayla steps on a loose floorboard, and the girl's eyes go _wide_. Kayla shuffles, crosses her arms, and the air immediately—unintentionally—grows perceptive and awkward. At least on Kayla's part. Laura's spoon clatters in her bowl.

"Ms. Silverfox...?" The girl had been finishing a bowl of Apple Jacks. Looney Toons plays with low volume on the screen.

Kayla shifts the weight of her feet. Scratches at the back of her scalp. "Uh, Laura. Hi. Uh." Glancing at the digital clock on the DVR, it reads 6:23 a.m. "I didn't know you would be here or—or up—or—"

The young girl blinks.

Uncrosses, re-crosses her arms. "Is—is your father home?"

Without a word, the girl points in the direction of the kitchen when, at the same time, the window over the sink is closed. Logan shuffles out, holding a spatula and carrying the smell of sugar and cooking oil.

Kayla's second-night-stand had been making breakfast. He gives a dopey half-smile, a quick wave. She shuffles in after him. Laura's eyes follow for a few seconds more before glueing back to the television, giggling when the coyote's umpteenth plan to capture the roadrunner doesn't work.

"Um," Kayla says, blowing a stray hair out of her eyes. "You…really don't have to do that. This. Whatever."

Her date—Logan—glances up from where he's meticulously dicing a purple onion. He's…better looking than she remembers him being. Maybe's it's the sleepless shirt, or it could be the apron carefully tied. "Yeah," he replies, kind of slowly, before returning his attention to the knife in his hand.

It's a nice knife. Shiny. Big. Sharp, slicing perfectly, precisely. She wonders if he has ever had a passion for culinary.

"Um," she says again, more deliberately. She doesn't think of what to say further, and so she's glad that he speaks up.

"I had been hoping that you would still be in bed for a few longer." The way he reveals this is delicate, genuine.

Kayla saunters behind him to wrap her arms around his waist, chin reaching for his shoulder. "I usually wake up at this time anyway. I'm a teacher, _remember_ ," she teases, taking a sassy undertone and walking to his side.

In a frying pan are diced tomatoes, bell pepper, garlic, and sausage sizzling in oil. A cooling pan of bacon sits on a back burner; a bowl of mixed eggs adjacent on the counter.

"Well if I had known you get up at the ass crack of dawn," he jokes back, leaning close, "I would have set an alarm. I'll shoot for next time?"

An eyebrow raises. "You better." She wraps her arms to tiptoe over to the small wooden kitchen table, plopping down in a chair as he carries the diced onion to pan with the other ingredients. "I like my eggs a certain way. Like my men."

"And what's that?"

She chuckles, picking up on an undertone that she thinks is a tinge of _jealousy_. A knee draws up to her chest and she's biting seductively at a fingernail. "A little dark. Solid. And _ready_ to eat."

The tips of Logan's fingers flex around the turner handle. The kitchen falls utterly silent.

Kayla stares. Her confidence chips.

On the counter, there's locked clear containers of oats and cereal. There's a family-sized bag of chocolate chips sitting next to the half-empty, opened box of Bisquick. A jug of hand-squeezed orange juice is on the table, freshly removed from the refrigerator. The oven's timer counts backwards from ten minutes. Filled with fruit and at the center of the table, the ends of a wicker basket nabbed from the Target clearance section are beginning to stick out and break.

The kitchen is silent. Kayla feels her gusto lessening. From the living room, they hear Laura give a short dollar of laughter.

And Logan's lower lip juts out. Nods. Takes an enormous breath and says, "that's the corniest thing I've ever heard!" His shoulders shake with hearty laughter. _Loud_ laughter. A laugh she's never heard him emit before. It's profoundly sincere—the fact that _she_ is the one to make _The Bumming Mr. Howlett_ , as he's nicknamed at the school, laugh revitalizes her confidence.

Her hand comes down on her thigh loudly. "Hey! At least I tried! Plus, you _loved_ it! You thought it was funny! You can't even stop laughing!"

He's too busy laughing, so he just nods.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Kudos don't tell much so _please_ let me know your thoughts! Was it bad and crappy? Was it too long and obnoxious? Was it just ok? Don't hold back your words, please! _Don't_ forget to comment. **Or, shoot me a complain and/or critic. Complain to me if it's just God awful, or even not, or just for any worries. Any words, good or bad, are greatly appreciated.****


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